


A Good Response to Whips

by dragongirl253



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2 (Video Game)
Genre: BDSM, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, F/M, I wasnt sure how to tag category because yeah its het but its still two characters with vaginas, Light Bondage, Object Penetration, Other, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Indulgent, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, Verbal Humiliation, Whipping, dom!morag, even if morag's vagina is hardly mentioned cuz she stays clothed the whole time, i havent used this site in 3 years and idk how to tag anymore, referenced tentacle stuff, self-destructive masochism, sub!zeke, swordplay ;), transboy zeke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 08:19:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15577704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragongirl253/pseuds/dragongirl253
Summary: Zeke's a glutton for punishment. Mòrag discovers this while scolding him for a stupid move in battle one day, when the heat of her swords only gets him soaked - and not with sweat. ;))))Zeke's a trans boy who's fully transitioned except for bottom surgery, Mòrag's a bestgirl who puts her whips to good use.I know 10k words is a lot but I promise this is just one of those classic 2k word one-shot smutfics, except Extra™





	A Good Response to Whips

**Author's Note:**

> Yoooo this shit's niche as hell cuz I just wrote it totally for myself lmaooo. But it's also the first time I've actually finished something in forever so i figure I may as well post it, especially since Mòragenator seem to be in pretty short supply.  
> Also? Are Zeke's opinions about his body in this a little bit OOC? Probably. Do I care? Not really. It's kinda just an excuse for me to shoehorn in some degradation. Everything in this is an excuse for me to t r e a t m a s e l f
> 
> Okay also quick info on Zeke's anatomy in this, just in case y'all don't know much about the FTM transition process: Testosterone makes your clit grow into p much a mini dick. Zeke has that, and then also got a "meta," which y'all can google real quick, and a urethral lengthening, so he pees through his dick, and supposedly if the person hasn't also had a vaginectomy by that point, the UL makes the vag entrance tighter, cuz it closes off that front area where the original pee hole was? There's actually not a lot of info on that so I'm kinda going off of a single claim I read once. Alright, enough science, onwards to smut!!

Mòrag's whip slashed against Zeke's neck and back, the bits of sword along its length snagging his hood, tearing the fabric, but not before dragging him back towards her. He gasped, his surprise deafening him to Mòrag's scolding, spoken in her typical hushed tone, intensity focused to a pinpoint of sound:

“Are you stupid?” She admonished, her heavy boots pounding crisply against the stone floor as she marched towards Zeke. Dumbfounded, he tried to turn towards her, but she grabbed him by the hood and spun him around to face her in time to take credit for his movement. The rest of their party, oblivious to the fact that Zeke had even done anything wrong, continued clomping down the hall, deeper into the enemy stronghold. They were far now, nearing the next corner of the corridor, but Mòrag was close, the visor of her helmet almost resting against his forehead; her breath, moist with the scent of dried meats, dispersing against his pale face. Before Zeke could find the words to react, Mòrag grabbed him by one of his many belts, as if it were possible to pull him any closer. “You do _realize_ that we are in a _real_ dungeon, against _real_ enemies, who want us _dead_ , yes?”

Mòrag's soft cotton gloves, warm as the smooth skin under them, grazed the equally hot skin under Zeke's belt, and the adjustment of one belt made them all start sliding out of place, only exposing more skin. The knuckle of Mòrag's index finger rubbed against Zeke's flat belly as her grip twitched frustratedly in time with her dignified sneer. Zeke's tense nerves could detect no emotion, frustration or otherwise, through the contact, though; he remained speechless.

“ _Do you?”_ Mòrag prompted, jostling him with a yank on his belt, which had now slid from the middle of his chest down to his waist. Mòrag's eyes sparked as Zeke's widened to anxious attention.

“Ye-yes!” Zeke blurted as if surprised by his own ability to speak. His hands instinctively went towards Mòrag's wrists, but something told him to hesitate, and he began drawing his arms in slowly. “Of _course_ I do, my _lady,_ ” he continued indignantly – emphasis on “lady” – turning only slightly away as he gingerly crossed his arms over his chest, too careful not to seem defensive. Mòrag finally let go of his belt, and Zeke moved his hands hastily again, eager to fix his outfit, but somehow more compelled to stop everything and focus on Mòrag as she took a step that put them toe-to-toe and continued speaking.

“Then why...” she started, reaching up to flip Zeke's eye patch out of the way, to demand that both eyes be focused on her. Instead, both his eyes went a bit blurry as the one without a contact lens took up the strain of having to see again. Regardless, Mòrag went on, her fingers sliding further up, into Zeke's hair, fine and staticky. “...Did you think it was okay to not only get in the way of my attack, but also to push me into sword's reach of an enemy, just for you and Pandoria to act out one of your moves just so you could pretend to be in the spotlight?” Indeed, as Mòrag turned her right hip in towards Zeke, the slash in her uniform from the enemy Zeke had thrown her into, split open to reveal the many thick layers put together to make the stiff fabric, and another article of the same fabric underneath. However, Zeke didn't see it – he wasn't looking, or listening.

“Hands off the merchandise, my lady!” He interjected in that theatrical, overly-chesty voice of his. He gestured to swat Mòrag's hand away, but again, he never made contact, and he turned away, too soft for Mòrag's hard stare. “I have to fix my whole outfit now, you know.” He had his back completely towards Mòrag as he slipped his jacket off to more easily adjust his belts. “I can't walk around looking like some uncultured dweeb.” His purple jacket piled onto the floor and his dainty, well-muscled back gleamed with sweat in the combined light of the rising sun through the window and the torches lining the wall, and Mòrag took a step along a circle around him.

“If I may continue, even worse is that you failed to even subdue the enemy, and only drew their attention to you.” As Mòrag came around to a spot from which she could see Zeke's chest, the light glared off of the core crystal embedded just over his heart, from which cracks in his skin spider-webbed out, but she had also noticed the pale scars just under his pecs – not that she hadn't known they were there, but everything above them often drew the eye away, and Zeke's bravado, his constant boisterous, hyper-macho attitude, made them easy to forget about. Remembering them sparked an idea. “...You should never put yourself in a spot to take more damage,” she said lowly, allowing one of her swords to fall into whip form. “It would be a shame for you to be marred by more scars like these –” her whip snaked upwards to caress Zeke's chest, and he jumped back, startled by the touch. “– would it not?” The whip still pressed towards Zeke as he stepped back from it, having to kick his jacket out of his way as he went.

“Those scars aren't- Nng!” Mòrag already knew; telling her was not his priority. Instead, Zeke allowed himself to groan as the whip began glowing blue, become warmer, then hotter, to the touch.

Mòrag followed Zeke to the wall, so that she had made it to where he'd been standing, over his jacket, without ever breaking her militant posture. Just before Zeke's bare back hit the wall, Mòrag withdrew her whip with a simple flick of her wrist, turning it back into one of the swords that rested on either side of her full hips. She tilted her head at Zeke. Each hard breath he took seemed to pump even more bright pink into his face, and he had to pull his shoulders and head back – elongating his throat and accentuating his Adam's apple – to accommodate his breathing; no such explanation could be given to the sort of power stance he'd adopted, with each foot planted just beyond shoulder width, and which now dissolved as his wits returned to him. Slowly, self-consciously, he molded his posture back into something reasonable, refusing to make eye contact with Mòrag the whole time. His eyes stayed soft and unfocused, and generally trained on Mòrag's shape.

“My whip seems to have quite an effect on you,” she quipped. The belt Zeke had been fidgeting with suddenly fell to the floor when he touched it again, and he suddenly met Mòrag's gaze in the same instant that the metal buckle _clank_ ed against the ground. Zeke swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his pretty throat.

“I... Suppose so,” Zeke finally answered. The ensuing silence pressurized the air around Zeke the longer it went on. Zeke clamped his hands around the thick leather of the next highest belt on his abdomen, the same way he'd clamp his teeth on it if Mòrag ever got to him with that whip – just to stop himself from fidgeting. The most human-seeming thing Mòrag did in that horrible second of silence was blink. Her almond brown eyes looked just a little bit softer once she proved she could blink.

Mòrag hummed in acknowledgment.

“Zeke,” she finally said, firm but unbiased, to reclaim his attention. “Take off your pants.”

“ _What?!?!_ ” Zeke clamored, his shoulders shooting up to his neck with tension as he tried to recoil from the idea, only for his upper back to meet the cold stone of the wall. With a sigh, Mòrag closed the distance between them again and reached for the same belt Zeke was clinging to. Her hands slightly overlapped his, and he quickly amended that by pulling his to the side as Mòrag undid the buckle more deftly than he ever could, even despite her gloves. She opened his hands with just a gentle two-finger tap to the back of them, and the second belt hit the floor with the same _clank_ as the first one.

Mòrag's eyes moved from where the belt had been, up to Zeke's face, without lifting her eyelids or eyebrows, leaving her looking at him more serious than sexy – or maybe equal parts of each. “Zeke,” she started softly. “I think you already know what I'm suggesting, and I ask that you trust me on this without my having to spell out the plan.” Zeke bit his lip as he looked away, knowing _exactly_ what Mòrag was suggesting. She straightened back up to her full height, equal to Zeke's. “I'm asking you to take off your pants,” she repeated, then she took a step back and gave Zeke the room to do it.

Obedient but shy, Zeke slid his hands down his sides and snuck his thumb under his waistband. Mòrag gave a stern nod to encourage him. Zeke's hands made their way to the front of him, where they undid the only functional belt on his person, then carefully wiggled his pants down over his butt. They collapsed at his ankles, similarly to how the pile of belts on his abdomen slid over his abs, then came to rest on the curve of his hips.

“Good,” Mòrag said with a nod, pulling off and pocketing her gloves. She held out a newly uncovered hand to Zeke. “Now hand them to me.” Zeke worked his pants off over his boots, one leg at a time, acutely aware of Mòrag's stern gaze as he struggled with it. Finally, he got his pants off and handed them to Mòrag, who took them, and turned away from Zeke, towards his jacket on the ground, leaving him awkwardly alone and naked as she folded his pants. The cold air was not something he was unfamiliar with feeling on his crotch – he had lived in Tantal until age 15 – but it was new to feel it on the two hardened inches of phallus he'd grown since moving away, and it was uncomfortable to be in hostile territory, unsupervised and naked as the cold air, carrying hints of snow, blew over his body and through his legs; the wetness spreading to his inner thighs didn't help anything either.

Eventually, Mòrag laid down his folded clothes and turned back to him. “Take those gloves off, too,” Mòrag said, her words affecting Zeke like mind control as he scrambled to loosen the straps of his gloves so that he could throw them to the ground. “I won't be letting you touch me with those rough things,” she said, stepping straight up against Zeke, keeping her hands folded regally behind her back. “ _If,_ I let you touch me, that is.” She stood for a moment, for both her sake and Zeke's, to let the situation wash over them; Zeke could've stepped back until he was against the wall, but instead his naked body pressed into Mòrag's stiff garments, letting the rough fabric scratch his skin, letting the buttons of her coat press into his abs, letting her one ornate pauldron keep his shoulder away from hers, creating an asymmetry in how they faced each other. Mòrag fit one hand between them just as Zeke was getting his gloves off, and she undid another belt, letting it join the pile at Zeke's feet. Her imperial uniform already made her the pinnacle of a woman in charge, but the effect became unprecedentedly prominent as Zeke's dick felt the cold metal of her faulds, and he stood there, completely exposed – and only exposing more as he went to imitate Mòrag by taking off another belt – completely defenseless, completely at her whim, and she stood with militant precision, not a muscle out a place, not a thread loose, not a hint of sympathy on her smooth, perfect, heart-shaped face.

The belt Zeke was working on fell to the floor, with almost no sound this time as the buckle hit the leather of one of the three others in the pile; the same went for the one Mòrag undid as soon as Zeke pulled his hands away. Five belts littered the ground, and still four more remained on Zeke. In the time it took Zeke to get one more off, Mòrag removed two. He stayed out of her way, then, and as she took the last one off, she put just a few inches of distance between herself and Zeke, so she could hold the strip of leather at her chest.

“Nine belts, huh?” She teased as she swayed away.

“I find that nine gets me pretty good coverage,” Zeke retorted in an unusually light voice, also fitting in a cynical chuckle at the onset of his speech.

“Coverage of what?” Mòrag questioned in an unusually human tone. Zeke scoffed.

“Of...” He gestured up and down the sides of his body. “ _This._ In case you haven't noticed, there have been bigger fans of my body than me.” His voice went chesty again, but he lacked his boisterousness. He became somehow demure as he met eyes with Mòrag through her visor.

“Really?” Mòrag said, the corner of her lip flicking up with a hint of playfulness. “You don't like your body?” She asked, fidgeting with the belt in her hands until it was in a position for her to snap it. Mòrag took another small step back before continuing: “Even though it's perfect for feeling and reacting to – ”

_THWAP._

The unbuckled end of the belt smacked into Zeke's side, and he cried out accordingly, even continuing to hum as a red mark became visible on his ribs. “...This?” Mòrag finished her sentence, grinning contently as she looked over Zeke, squirming in place, refusing to step away from the spot that Mòrag left him in. His clit-dick had begun to shrink back into the skin surrounding it for protection from the cold, but it was fully exposed again now, having reacted to the strike as strongly as the person attached to it had.

Zeke caught his breath, smoothed his hair back, and made himself shorter than Mòrag so he could look up at her as he conceded, “You _do_ make a good point.”

Mòrag ran her hand over the belt, looking over the canvases of Zeke's pale skin for another good place to make a mark. “I can hit you again,” she said.

“...Please do,” Zeke brought himself to ask after a shaky breath and a moment of consideration. He stood up tall, raised his arms above his head, trying to give Mòrag access to anywhere she thought he needed to be hit. Mòrag held the belt in steady, practiced hands, which made a sudden movement and –

_THWAP._

She struck him on a lower spot on his side, right where his waist curved in to give him a slight hourglass figure. More sweetly than she expected, Zeke screamed and tensed in towards the site of the hit. He brought his arms down to hug himself, turning slightly away from Mòrag, and she took a respectful step back in return. The pain from where Mòrag whipped him with the belt, from the skin that was now turning red, was fine, amazing, even. The residual tingles from it spread slightly past the bounds of the redness, and the sharp strike echoed in his head, giving him the clean, sharp feeling of being whipped, bringing his sense of touch to new heights.

However, what left Zeke holding back tears was the sudden pressure, the discomfort of the force of the impact, traveling onwards into his gut, where he couldn't release the tension of feeling like he'd been punched. Mòrag extended a delicate hand towards him.

“Are you okay?” She asked. Zeke nodded weakly, but took a minute to answer.

“I'm...” He finally managed to stand up straight. “Okay now. That hit just... really hit me square on.” Mòrag bowed her head to him.

“My apologies,” she offered. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” Zeke said, shaking his head and laughing, “Titans, no. I think it will be safer for you to whip me on the back, though.”

“Where there are less vital organs directly under the skin,” Mòrag finished for him as he turned his back, a wide expanse of smooth skin stretched over defined muscle, to her. “Right,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head and dropping it to her hands, as if she should've known better. She looked up in good time though, running her eyes over Zeke's back as if looking over a pristine snowy hill to map out a sled ride. She chose her target, lifted her belt, snapped it once, then –

_THWAP._

She hit Zeke across the small of his back, and he arched his back so perfectly, raising his hands to support himself against the wall as he pushed into his shoulders, sticking his ass out and throwing his head back with a prolonged groan through gritted teeth. Mòrag smiled with a small, “hmph,” of satisfaction, then let her gaze fall to the ground again, to the pile of belts. The sound of skin against polished stone drew Mòrag's attention and she looked up to see Zeke pawing at the wall, unsure of what to do with his hands.

“I can bind your hands,” she offered unassumingly. Zeke looked back over his shoulder at her, eyes wide with excitement.

“I would love that,” he said. Mòrag smirked at his enthusiasm. As she bent down to pick up another belt, though, Zeke said something else: “And... Special Inquisitor... Could you please use your whip on me..?” Mòrag had never heard him so subdued, and his tone, combined with his ass, stuck out as if begging to be thrust into, almost drove her wild.

Mòrag maintained her composure, though, as she ran a hand up his back, rolling her body to follow it, asking him, “Oh? And what makes you think you deserve to feel the very Special Inquisitor's whip against your skin?”

_THWAP._

She struck him across the small of his back again, just above where she'd last hit him, to keep him in line. Mòrag guided her hand and herself up Zeke's raised arms, placing the belt across his wrists while she waited for his answer. It was at that point that they both noticed how much Zeke was shivering, both from the cold wind and the excitement, as he stuttered out:

“I-i've done so much to try to perfect my body... I need to be mutilated to even it out.”

Mòrag tilted her head somewhat caught off guard, but tried to play along. “What you've done, is you've created a perfect canvas for me to cut into,” she said, running a hand over the muscles of his back. “Not that that's a reason for me to actually do it,” she curtly continued as she wrapped the belt three times around Zeke's wrists to get it tight enough.

“I've done bad deeds,” Zeke insisted. “obstructed justice in, in a way that needs to be punished.”

Mòrag pulled the belt tight once more before she finally buckled it, binding his wrists together. Mòrag allowed Zeke to wrestle with the binding for a moment, to test out her handiwork, then she stepped away and put a hand on the hilt of her sword with a sigh.

“Indeed, you have done bad, and must be punished,” she droned. The real sound of interest was her sword exiting its sheathe, then slowly expanding into its whip form. Zeke could hear it. And he shivered with anticipation. She allowed her whip to snake along his legs, each movement making him twitch, making him extend his leg back towards her sword-whip when she finally pulled it back, and then cracked the air with it, striking Zeke much higher than he expected – between the shoulder blades. It hit him with what felt like far more force than the belt, even without the added ether sting from the blade weapon, but it didn't cut him. Instead, the flat of the blade scattered across his back.

“ _AAGH - !_ ” Zeke screeched louder than he could remember ever screeching before – although, he couldn't remember much of anything in the moment. All that existed was the searing pain of being flogged, even only one strike in, spreading through his back like drops of red food coloring, pawning the tension off into his shoulders and glutes as the leg he'd lifted promptly bent up and returned to his side, and he pressed his bound arms into the wall, in turn pressing the belt buckle into the bones of his wrist. “ _AAAGGHH – AAGGGgg, nnngh..._ ” He needed a breath in the middle of his scream, but he did pick the scream back up before letting it dwindle into a harsh whimper as he closed his mouth, the tension spreading further to his jaw. Mòrag could hear him grinding his teeth.

Mòrag paced a couple steps back and forth behind him, her clear steps, not quite as dainty as heels, adding to the atmosphere, and giving Zeke a chance to work through the effects of the first strike, shivering and squirming until he could take steady breaths again. At that point she bent down to pick up another belt. As she reached for the one right below Zeke, a drop of clear, viscous liquid fell on it, and Mòrag looked up to see where it came from, to find herself staring down Zeke's pussy, visibly contracting (and moving his enlarged clit with it) in no particular rhythm, glimmering with wetness, spreading said wetness anywhere it could possibly get to: over the base of his dick, back onto his taint, all over his inner thighs, and now, even to the leather on the ground below it.

Zeke moaned in the background as Mòrag went ahead and picked the belt up anyways. She held it loosely between her hands and stared at the glimmering drop of wetness in the middle of the black leather, suddenly in a separate world from Zeke, who had his breathing and his muscles back under control, but still stood there, moaning, contorted into that back-arched, ass-out, legs-spread position he'd gotten into with his initial reaction.

“You're dripping,” Mòrag finally stated so clearly that it brought both of them to notice the slight echo of the hallway. Zeke froze in embarrassment, but couldn't stop his pussy from expelling another glimmering drop of lubricant to the floor. Mòrag's breath hitched as she stared down at Zeke's popped pussy, enamored with it.

“That can't be true,” Zeke said, his raised brows and tilted head betraying the confidence in his voice. He shifted his weight between his feet, subtly pulling his hips forward, away from Mòrag.

“But it is,” Mòrag insisted, reaching for Zeke's crotch, convincing him not to close his legs yet. She ran her fingers along his bussy so lightly that she didn't even _actually_ touch him, but Zeke still flexed his legs and threw his head down with a stifled guttural moan, and Mòrag still came back with wet fingers. She brought them up to Zeke's face, where he turned to lick them clean, but before he could, Mòrag wiped them off on his cheek and pulled away from him with nothing but a matter-of-fact, “ _This_ is what's dripping out of you.”

Zeke sighed, and in the meantime, Mòrag drew her second sword, unbeknownst to him. Slowly, carefully, she positioned it between Zeke's legs, and raised the flat of the blade into his genitals. Zeke immediately moaned and pulled his hips up and away from it, but then brought himself back down once he figured out he needed more.

_wuh-KP!_

The whip in Mòrag's other hand snapped against Zeke's ass, sending him grinding forward along the flat of her blade, making him scream in more than one way. “I will decide how and when you receive pleasure, do you understand?”

Zeke settled back into his original position, his breathing still ragged as he found it within himself to reply, “Yes, Special Inquisitor.” She dropped her blade just barely off of Zeke's groin, letting his juices trail between flesh and metal.

“Titans, you're wet...” she commented, almost in awe. _Well, that's hardly my fault,_ Zeke wanted to retort, but he couldn't find the words, tremors of arousal still coursing through his body even before Mòrag brought her blade back up to drive him crazy with just a ghost of a touch. Even as Zeke squirmed and grunted like a man possessed, Mòrag couldn't find it in herself to tease him for it, considering that the sight of it left her own panties tight and soaked under the many layers of her uniform. Furthermore, it was her greatest hope that as she put more pressure on him, he'd only react _more._

She pressed the flat into him, so that it rested against his outer pussy lips – more sensitive than they'd ever been before – and squished his phallus, drawing deep, dramatic moans from Zeke without her even having to lift a hand. Mòrag angled the blade up until Zeke's dick slipped out from under it, and left it to apply pressure and fresh stimulation to the left side of it, until she slid the smooth metal back over the mound – briefly grinding against the head of it as she went – and did the same to the right side, leaving Zeke's breathing loud and ragged as he could barely remember how to whimper. The movement had coaxed Zeke's lips open and then allowed them to close around the thin, surprisingly dull blade, making him release a stream of incomprehensible throaty sounds of pleasure, melting his cold, goosebump-covered body as he put everything he had into being a good boy and not bucking his hips.

Mòrag pulled her sword back over Zeke's privates like the bow of a violin, producing the sweet music of Zeke's moans, which hit a subito forte as the end of her sword reached his hole and she pushed it in barely an inch. His knees half-collapsed under him and Mòrag's sword fell away similarly as she pulled it back and –

_wuh-KP!_

– cracked her whip across his ass. Zeke launched forward again, clenching his jaw and groaning, then felt delicate fingers steepled on his ass as he came back from it. Mòrag's footsteps sounded again on the hard floor as she stepped in behind him, letting his hips press back into the cold metal covering hers. With her left hand, she sheathed her sword, and as she took her right hand, still holding the whip, off of Zeke supple ass, she cupped the side of his hip in her left hand, filling her palm, threatening to curl her fingers around his hip bone. Mòrag squeezed him reassuringly as he tried to groan himself back to a state of normalcy, then tensed with disappointment when he eventually heard her sheathe her whip.

“Do you think I need to hit you more?” She asked, a reaction to his reaction. Her right hand, now free, had started drifting before she started speaking, and had reached Zeke's genitals shortly after she stopped. Her thumb lightly ran over his asshole, which puckered at the touch, as the rest of her fingers explored the surface of his pussy, wet enough to have been a bottle of lube unto itself. The contact consumed Zeke's mind, his genitals burning with desperation and only getting worse as Mòrag's hand drifted forward so that her index finger rested on the head of his phallus. Despite his best efforts, the only sounds Zeke could remember how to make were moans and whimpers, and eventually little yelps of spikes in pleasure as Mòrag idly pinched his dick between her index and middle knuckles. When Mòrag began to pull away, Zeke finally managed to find the words:

“Yes, Special Inquisitor.” Zeke whimpered longingly when Mòrag stepped off of him and pulled her smooth, manicured hand away from his crotch, but he at least had her satisfied “hmph” to comfort him. Mòrag crouched to pick up the belt Zeke had dripped on. A quick glance told her that the single drop of his juice that was on it had mostly dried up, so to amend that, she put one hand in front of Zeke to grab the other end of the belt as she pulled it up between his legs and pressed it into his crotch for too brief a second.

“ _Ahhhh-aauuuhhllmmnn...”_ Zeke sighed blissfully, but the sound was cut off when Mòrag pulled the belt across his mouth, pushing it thin-ways into his mouth, and wetting the corners of his lips with his own juices. He closed his eyes and took in the taste of himself, a little bit dry but mostly tart, and listened to the gentle sound of the belt buckle clacking against itself as Mòrag crossed the ends of the belt behind his neck and then brought them around to buckle them in the front.

“I don't want your screams attracting any more attention,” Mòrag explained, taking a step towards Zeke's side. “And I don't want you breaking any of your teeth from clenching too hard.” Mòrag put a hand barely against Zeke's cheek, and in the same motion that he nodded with, he lolled his head into Mòrag's hand like a cat enjoying a head scratch. Alas, Mòrag had to pull her hand away to take her deliberate steps back into position. She pulled out both swords, letting them fall into whip form, but only raised her right arm. In the silence, Zeke tensed to prepare himself for the –

_wuh..._ _**KP!** _

It it hit as hard across his back as he expected it to, and the harsh, harsh sting heightened his senses to the point that he could feel the blood rushing to exactly where he'd been hit, forming a red mark. His teeth dug into the leather, and their combined mass stifled his scream as well as any other gag. The stimulation of the whip had spread into his muscles, which contracted hard and tried to pull his arms and shoulders back defensively; he made it to the point of his shoulders hunching up to his neck as his hands hovered just above the back of his head. The feeling of the belt, straining against his wrists, softly digging in, comprised the last bit of sensory information Zeke could process for that moment. A breath or two later, as he managed to put his arms back up over his head, he loosened his jaw halfway with an exhale. As his teeth released the belt, the belt released its taste, obviously leathery, but also salty, from his juices, and from all the sweat that had soaked into it throughout his adventures. A sort of post-action high started to wash over Zeke, cuing Mòrag to raise her second whip. Zeke was vaguely aware of her raising the whip, but what really got him back in the mood was hearing it _CRACK_ in the air; he tensed, expecting the glorious, searing pain, but nothing came, and just as he started to relax enough to look back –

It hit him again, burning away all other thoughts for another instant, leaving him unaware that he was even moving, bending over lower, leaning into his dry sobs as he relished the pain, able to trace exactly where the flats of the sword bits had hit him, the sensation was so specific. Again, his teeth grinded into the leather, tearing off minuscule bits of it that would've otherwise been his teeth. As his jaw started to loosen up, what had sounded like sobs turned into masochistic laughter, and he started to stand back up, slowly, dramatic as a super villain. Both of Mòrag's whips were all the way up before he was, though, and they _crack_ ed against his back in an x-shape, pushing him back down.

Zeke screamed properly at that one, really feeling the damage over the details; the slash-like strike had not _broken_ skin, but definitively tore that first layer of it. Doubled over, his skin stretched tight over his back, the little tears felt bigger than they were, and the sharp pain, throbbing in time with his racing heart, was very, very noticeable to him. It all dulled slightly as his back returned to an upright position, and Mòrag, watching his movement intently, put away her left whip, anticipating the moment that Zeke's hips would be angled towards the ground again. As soon as they were, Mòrag guided her sword forward between Zeke's legs, bringing it up so that the guard was in contact with the bottom of his ass as the blade touched his genitals just like before.

_wuh-KP!_

Mòrag cracked her whip against Zeke's ass, sending him grinding forward along the blade, just like before. He bit down to stifle a moan, and turned his head into his shoulder just for extra security. While he was composing himself, Mòrag threw out her observation of how tight his pussy was. She took no action to demonstrate, but she came close enough; the tip of her blade rested along the underside of his phallus, barely an inch away from his entrance. Catching his breath but still shivering, Zeke pressed his tongue against his gag to get it out of his mouth and let it rest against his chin.

“That's cuzz'a the surgery,” he muttered listlessly. "Indol does a pretty good job, don't you think?"

“I see,” Mòrag mused, pulling her blade back an imperceptibly small distance; Zeke twitched at the stimulation. “Do you even want it here at all?” The tip of the blade was now gliding between his slick lips, and every shock of pleasure from it told him that answer _right now_ was “ _yes._ ”

“I doh- Uhhhh, shit, I'm not su- I... Titans, _fuck_ , it's...” Zeke hemmed and hawed over his inability to answer, and finally Mòrag just told him,

“If not, perhaps we should punish it for being here.” She slid her tip into him, and it went in effortlessly past all of his wetness. It felt sharper than it had a second ago; not sharp enough to cut, but sharp enough that Zeke knew exactly what fantasy she was evoking. He nodded, and Mòrag paused. “Are you okay with being penetrated?” she asked bluntly, completely abandoning the fantasy for a moment in favor of being proper. Zeke furrowed his brows in contemplation; Mòrag pulled out for a second to let him think. The feeling of emptiness that triggered ran counter to Zeke's normal thought process of pretending he didn't even have a vagina. The muscles of his hole undulated encouragingly, though, and his own dripping wetness may as well have been ethanol, the way it made him burn and ache for _more._ And that wasn't even mentioning the fantasy of having the thing torn apart by an imperial sword.

“I'm okay with it,” Zeke finally said, but he still winced when Mòrag began sliding her sword, back to being harmlessly dull, into him.

“Are you sure?” Mòrag questioned. Zeke forced himself to nod, completely unconvincingly as far as Mòrag was concerned. “I can do this... more softly, if you'd prefer.” Mòrag let the tip of her blade rest against Zeke's entrance as it fell into whip form, a little at a time. When Zeke didn't answer, she let the sword-whip snake forward along his genitals, making him shiver. She'd dulled her weapon to the point that the bits of blade felt more like beads; although, the string attaching them together still felt sharp, as the sword bit on the tip of it curved around to the other side of his dick, and pulled the string behind it taut, stinging where it dug in. The pressure was released as the whip snaked back along the same path it had taken to get there. As dull as the blade bits were, they lightly snagged Zeke's pubes; that sensation was as good as any other to him.

The wetter the whip got with Zeke's secretions, the more it felt like a tentacle, and the similarity didn't let up as the slick, prehensile thing stopped feeling him up, and finally wormed its way between his lips. His lips closed around the first length of actual whip, and the tip of the blade squirmed around just inside of him.

“I've manifested my weapon as dull as it will go for now, so that I won't slice your insides apart,” Mòrag explained.

“You should,” said Zeke.

“I'm not going to,” Mòrag asserted. Zeke bowed his head to get the leather still at his chin back into his mouth.

Zeke closed his eyes and moaned, his hole relaxing, his whole body relaxing as if his back _wasn't_ covered in flogging marks. It was as if a squood were groping him in the heat of battle when just the first bit of blade rested just within the entrance of his pussy. As another bead-like bit of blade slid into him, it felt like the squood had really taken an interest in him, and now battle had turned into something else... Which... Technically, was actually exactly what happened with Mòrag. His lips parted pleasurably again as Mòrag slid in a third bit, and all three writhed around inside him, connected by the string of the whip, but otherwise independent. Zeke moaned deeply, his breathing getting heavy again, his feeling of fullness already so prominent that he didn't notice Mòrag slipping in a fourth.

All he could think of doing was touching himself, so he leaned back away from the wall and lowered his bound hands to his crotch. His phallus had barely come in contact with his hands, when,

 _wuh-KP!_ Mòrag cracked her other whip across his ass.

“Stay in line.”

It stung, but not like the strikes across his back had, not like the strikes that covered large enough areas of skin that the stinging radiated through his body. Most importantly, the pain made him clench around the whip inside of him; he suddenly became acutely aware of the volume of each bit of blade, about a square inch each, as the spasming walls of his hole constricted around them. In response, Mòrag thrust her whip as deep into him as it would go without bringing a fifth bit of blade in. Then, she slipped a fifth bit into him anyways.

“Ah.. AHH!” Zeke yelped at each event of the sequence, at his clenching, Mòrag's thrusting, the bit's entrance. He squeezed his watering eyes shut, almost overwhelmed by all of it, but still mumbled his desire for Mòrag to hit him again. _Crack._ She obliged, striking him horizontally across his shoulder blades. Zeke crashed forward as if to double over again, the dry sobs returning to his repertoire of sounds. He clenched around the whip inside him again, but no matter how much lube each strike squeezed out of his pussy, the walls were still thin by result of his transition, and the fullness was vaguely painful. Mòrag had surely picked up on it, as he kept cringing moments after she whipped him, but before she could formulate a non-intrusive way to check in on him, he spit out his gag again.

“Turn the heat on,” he said weakly, in reference to the heat and fire Mòrag could summon to her whips. Mòrag took a step back, and Zeke whimpered as the whip inside him stopped squirming. Mòrag brought the whip in her right hand up to about shoulder height, considering it.

“It will leave a mark,” she stated, dropping her hand and looking at Zeke again.

“I know,” Zeke lilted, his speech regaining strength as Mòrag gave him that break. “So have all the others,” he said with a smirk. Mòrag sighed, her hands finding each other at her tailbone, one sword bit falling out of Zeke, tension increasing on the other four as Mòrag pulled the whip that much further from him.

“Zeke, if I strike you with my heated whip, it will brand you. You will have _scars_ burned across your back.” Despite Mòrag's efforts to talk him out of it, Zeke's eyes only seemed to grow brighter, his brows lifting to accommodate his excitement as the corner of his mouth flicked up into a crooked smile.

“Please?” He whispered mischievously. “For me?” Again, Mòrag sighed and shook her head at Zeke's complete lack of common sense, but still put a hand on his cheek to turn his head back towards the wall, shifting him back into position, where he was prepared to be hit.

Mòrag repositioned herself behind Zeke, and as she lifted her whip, glowing blue with the heat of Brighid's powers, she paused and allowed herself a small smile and an eye roll at the absurdity of how Zeke wiggled his butt in excitement. She slipped the fifth bit of her other whip back into him, thrusting the whole system as deep as it would go, and Zeke's whole lower body contracted into the stimulation. The whip wiggled inside him, pushing moans and wetness out of him as he settled into the relative comfort of the regular stimulation. Mòrag raised her whip to snap him out of it.

_wwhh-TTSSSSK._

Zeke barely even made a noise, his throat too tense to let one out, his mind too consumed by the searing white pain sizzling across his mid back to find any sound other than the slightest hissing of heat biting into his skin. He pressed his hands into the wall as best he could, leaning into them as he pulled his shoulder blades back, raking his fingernails down the stone and clenching his jaw to the point that his teeth threatened to break. As soon as he started breathing again, Mòrag stepped forward and slipped the bite block of a belt around Zeke's neck up into his mouth. However, Zeke shook her hand away and spit the soft leather gag right back out, instead turning with exhausted eyes to look at a mildly surprised Mòrag and ask her something:

“How's it look?” He forced the words out as if through mortal wounds as Mòrag leaned back to look at the branding again. Zeke flinched with a sharp inhale as the tip of Mòrag's finger fell lightly upon it; she couldn't resist ghosting her finger along the raised line, a deeper red than all his other marks, almost brown along the edges, with splotches of sickly yellow sunken into the center of the line. The bits of blade made soft square outlines of themselves on the branding as they'd shot across his back, but they didn't conceal the pattern of the main line Mòrag had whipped across, which started thin as a pinprick on one end, got a little wider than the whip itself was as it neared the center, where it had pressed into him the hardest, then barely tapered off until it just faded into undamaged skin on the other end. The cold air blowing in from the balconies helped keep the scent at bay, but as Mòrag looked over the wound, the coppery aspect of burning skin registered in her nostrils, and opened a path for the pungent, musky body of the scent. She turned her head away.

“It looks like you've been wounded,” she said sourly. Zeke let out a huff of laughter; he hadn't even realized how tight he'd kept his holes clenched since the hit, until that sudden exhale blessed him with the sweet release of the tension. With a blissful sigh, he bowed his head to work his gag back into his mouth without saying anything further.

Mòrag brought her left hand around to the front of her hips, pushing her whip forward with it. The bits inside of Zeke briefly rearranged themselves, making Zeke moan yet again, and the bits further down than than snuck forward and ran along the underside of Zeke's phallus, turning his moans into a cry. “Do you want me to hit you again?” Mòrag asked with a hint of hesitance.

“Yes,” moaned Zeke around his gag. “Keep the heat up,” he encouraged. Mòrag drew back her right arm, heating her whip to the sizzling blue it achieves in battle, and chose her target, right across the first line.

_wwhh-TTSSSSK._

She burned a second line into Zeke's back, starting just a couple inches below the first one and angling only slightly up so they intersected at their midpoints, and it ended the same distance above the first line as it had started below. This time, Zeke found a scream within himself to release. His whole torso tensed, same as his throat and jaw, and the sound came out more like a hiss with a hint of an “ahhh...” His vision blurred, filling with the same searing white color as the pain, and he balled his hands into the tightest fists he'd ever made. As soon as his tension started to diffuse, his whole body slouched as if the puppet master had let go of the strings, as if he were done. But still, the first thing he said when he found the words to say it, was,

“The one inside me, too.”

“ _What?_ ” Mòrag jumped back from the request, hoping she was misunderstanding it as she absentmindedly pulled three sword bits out of Zeke in rapid succession. Zeke cried out, dropping the belt from his mouth, as the bits left him, but eventually managed to elaborate.

“You know, heat up the ones inside me, burn this bussy up,” he said with a smirk.

“Zeke, I...” Mòrag paused to run her wide eyes over one part of Zeke at a time. “Can't do that. If I melt that flesh, it can do serious proxy damage to your internal organs. Architect knows what it would do to your vagina itself.”

“Weld it shut, hopefully.”

“Zeke-”

“C'mon, weld me shut, Special Inquisitor,” Zeke teased. He wiggled his butt how he hoped was enticingly, but the scent of burning skin permeated the air, killing the mood. Mòrag pulled her whip out of his pussy. Zeke immediately frowned, unsure if he should even stay in position against the wall anymore. Mòrag put both her whips away and walked to his side.

“Zeke, you have a nice body, you know,” she commented, tapping her fingers once against the right side of Zeke's chest. “One worth preserving, if you ask me.” Her fingers bounced off his firm chest, up to his jaw. Zeke scoffed, but submitted when she began guiding him backwards, away from the wall, and he let her hand drift down his neck and shoulder. He stood in the middle of the corridor as he and Mòrag exchanged a small static shock as her fingers passed over the core embedded in his pecs, over his heart. She drew her hand away and stood tall and imposing as she silently looked over Zeke's naked body. “Let's not do this anymore,” she said, her eyes falling the marks she'd made on his sides seven pages but half as many minutes ago. “I'm sure there are less damaging ways to... wrap this up.”

“Oh?” Zeke said, eager to follow the script. “Such as..?”

Mòrag grabbed both layers of the belt around Zeke's neck and swung it around so that the buckle was in the back and the double layer where they crossed was pulled wide-ways into his mouth, completely blocking off his mouth. “ _I_ am the one asking questions here,” she recited. Zeke hummed his acceptance of the roles they each fell back into. Mòrag put a hand on Zeke's solar plexus. “Arms up.” Zeke's arms had relaxed to the point that his wrists rested on top of his head, which only served to give him the chance to straighten them back up on command. “Good boy.”

Mòrag took her hand off of him, and returned it to the usual fold behind her back as she began to pace circles around him, like a vulture, piercing eyes trained on him over the beak of her helmet. Towards the end of her second circle, she let out a sigh at the sight of the wounds she'd given him, but the breath served the real purpose of brushing against the back of Zeke's neck, rustling little pieces of hair with it, so that they also tickled his skin. Zeke threw his head back towards the disturbance, his whole body wiggling ever so slightly with the jerky movement. Mòrag smirked.

Coming around to the front of him, Mòrag lifted Zeke's chin in the tripod of her thumb, pointer, and middle finger, drilling her gaze into his. His baby blue eyes shivered with tension and desperation, too unfocused to look anything like the daggers Mòrag stared at him. She turned his head to face her as far as he could turn it, until she crossed around to his back, and ghosted her fingers over the brands again. Zeke shivered at the touch, bit down on his gag at the bit of sharpness she added to the already throbbing pain the marks caused.

“This cold air must feel good on these burns,” she commented. Without thinking, Zeke nodded. Mòrag ran two fingers over the first burn she'd made, making Zeke tense up. “And how's _this_ feel on them?” she teased. Zeke groaned until her fingers reached the end of the mark then started sliding down his smooth back, the rest of her fingers joining the first two until she had all five of them curling into the softness of his ass, and at that point his groan turned into a moan. “This is a very nice ass. I'm glad you like it touched.” Mòrag pushed her hand harder into it as she pulled up then away, and came back to spank it. Mòrag stared intently at Zeke's ass as if it were a set of battle plans as it jiggled for a second then swayed with Zeke's delighted wiggling. “Good shape. Good structure,” she commented, bringing her hand back up to grab the other cheek.

Zeke pushed back into Mòrag's hand, trying to act proud of himself in light of her positive review. Mòrag smirked along with him, then let her hand slide down, fingers first, to his inner thigh. Zeke respectfully spread his legs a little wider to make room for Mòrag's silky soft fingertips to rub his own soft skin, just at the border of where hair started to grow. Mòrag kneeled to get a better reach, and moved her fingers inward, until her index finger ran along the cusp of his entrance, moist with just a hint of how wet the inside was. Before she pulled her hand away, Mòrag flicked Zeke's inner thigh, more of a reminder of the sharp sensations from earlier than anything to stand on its own. Zeke jumped a little and whimpered as Mòrag's left hand took her right's old place.

As Mòrag's hand approached the hilt of her sword, her face approached his crotch, so that her head blocked the draft and replaced it with warm breath as moist as the rest of the air surrounding his pussy. “You want my tongue on you? You want me to lap this mess up?” Mòrag tilted her head forward and up so that the tip of her nose was lined up with the back of Zeke's pussy, and she breathed hard, clearly as excited as he was, and he shivered with each of her breaths, so much warmer, safer, enveloping than any freezing Tantalese air had ever felt. Through half-lidded eyes, Zeke felt himself drifting forward, but suddenly caught himself, straightening back up as he languidly hummed an, “Mm-hm...” Mòrag smirked against his flesh and extended her tongue just far enough to briefly rest against Zeke's lips, but just as Zeke prepared for her to part them, still adoring every breath from the Special Inquisitor's lungs, until the one that carried the words, “You would, wouldn't you?” The words that immediately preceded her pulling away.

She pulled her sword from its sheathe, placing the flat against again the same spot on his inner thigh, moving her hand out of the way, up to the small of his back. She caressed him for a moment with the blade before moving it up a little higher, tilting it so that the edge pulled one of his lips open, letting his pent up wetness dribble out, spreading itself all over his crotch and anything near it. Zeke tensed, closing his eyes to let himself feel the gentle ether pulsing off of Mòrag's blade against his sensitive flesh.

“You seem to respond well to metal,” Mòrag commented, sliding her sword to the side, off of Zeke's pussy. “And ether.” She tapped her sword against him with a bigger than usual pulse of ether like a static shock. Zeke moaned in agreement, relaxing his shoulders. “Arms up,” Mòrag had to remind him, sliding her hand up his back for emphasis. Zeke immediately and enthusiastically obeyed, straightening up in such a way that his hips tilted backwards toward Mòrag, who sighed a sigh of satisfaction. She put her free hand on his front hip bone to pull Zeke closer still, then leaned into him, her cheek against his ass cheek. “I don't believe I've experimented enough with this, though.” Mòrag reached a supinated hand forward through Zeke's legs, thumb extended so that it parted Zeke's slit, taking that wetness with it up to the tip of his phallus.

Zeke moaned as she nudged his foreskin back with her other fingers, then turned her hand as to keep running her thumb over him exploritively, over his subtle glans and the hole in the center of them, extracting moans from him with every stroke. Her close-trimmed fingernails ensured that it was pleasurable as she wiggled the tip of her thumb under his foreskin and drew a circle around his tip. Zeke moaned and trembled, bucking against Mòrag's hand as she repositioned it to wrap her first two fingers around his dick to give him a sort of modified handjob, her thumb reaching back to tease his slit.

After a minute, Mòrag pulled her hand away, letting it trail in a way that told Zeke she intended to return soon. She inched the sword on his inner thigh up, using it to gently pry him open again, revealing the undulating inside of his eager hole. Zeke waited, patiently, obediently, as she drug the dull but still textured edge of her blade along his inner lip. As she reached the end of her sword, she tilted it up, pushing the tip of it into Zeke only a little deeper than she'd pushed the edge, but plenty deep enough to make Zeke cry out suddenly. Mòrag smiled at his implicit approval, then pushed a tiny bit deeper to establish her maximum depth. She pulled the sword backwards again, playing with the angle as she went back in after that, and fell into a rhythm that made Zeke moan and push back into her on every beat.

“This is far better than being 'welded shut,' wouldn't you agree?” Mòrag asked, looking up at Zeke, too busy moaning and rolling into her to give an answer. She scoff-laughed. “Arms up,” she reminded him again, pulling out and preparing to shift position. With a dramatic exhale through his nose, he obeyed. His arms were starting to get shaky from exhaustion, as Mòrag saw when she tilted her head back to sweep her clunky hat off of her head. She swung around to be in front of him, letting her left hand trail down his right leg to aid the movement.

On her knees in front of Zeke, Mòrag surprised him by darting forward and quickly running her tongue over his pussy, pulling all the way back along the underside of his protruding clit, drawing a sharp inhale that barely had time to turn into a yelp by the time her mouth left him. Zeke bucked forward, but those same pale lips that had been closed around him too briefly only curled into a smirk at his frustration, and Mòrag laid her forehead against his hip bone, reaching behind him to grab his ass and hold him in place as she breathed down his thigh.

Zeke opened his eyes to stare hungrily down at Mòrag, and then he met hers when she looked up, the leading movement of her rise to her feet. Baby blue, his gaze was gentle by all accounts compared to the heat of her hazel-brown eyes, which drilled into him, looking away only briefly to indicate his heavy arms as Mòrag told him, “You can rest them once you cum for me.”

“Mmmmm.” Zeke hummed, ambiguous, but as submissive as he needed to be.

Mòrag stood eye to eye with Zeke, her straight black hair falling into her face, still pristine despite the mild sweat she'd been working up. She reached down and slid a finger into Zeke's pussy, and the blissful sigh it pushed out of him fell lukewarm across her face as she stabilized herself with a hand on his emptying rib cage as she slid a second one in. Zeke inhaled shakily and moaned deeply, both actions unsteady, left unchecked as Zeke lost himself in the feeling of Mòrag's fingers curling against his inner walls. He pressed himself into Mòrag's touch, and she let him grind his clit against the heel of her hand; he squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his hole around her fingers, desperate to pull her into him.

“This must make you glad you still have this hole, no?” Mòrag asked, the words muffled against Zeke's cheek before her nose and lips, her _breath_ , began drifting down towards his neck. As she turned to nuzzle into the firm curve of his throat, her hair fell out of her face, back against his shoulder, silky and perfect. She pressed her lips into his overheated skin, rough with goosebumps, exhaled into the contact, and then provided precious little suction. Zeke moaned, a plea for more, and Mòrag began to oblige by opening her mouth, letting her top teeth scrape into him while her soft lips lingered on the surrounding flesh, but she paused before Zeke got what he wanted.

“I don't think I really _need_ to mark you as mine, do I?” Mòrag said before pulling away from him. Zeke froze in overdramatic silence at the betrayal until Mòrag looked him in the eye again and continued, “I believe I've already done my job on that front.” Zeke huffed, that amusing kind of frustrated and desperate that drove Mòrag on. “Besides,” she added, smirking, “it's not something you really _need_ , is it?” She pushed her fingers hard and suddenly into Zeke's g-spot, and Zeke nearly collapsed over her, crying out. Mòrag kept fingering him hard, also pulling her thumb back to play with his dick as she slid her free hand up his chest to stand him back up.

“Now, now,” she lilted, circling her thumb around his nipple. “We both know there's only one good reason for you to be that dramatic.” She met his burning gaze and relished the look in his eyes: Borderline animalistic. Borderline overstimulated. Borderline _orgasmic._

She smirked, her free hand sliding up to his throat, her fingers tightening around him, not quite to choke him, just to hold him as she inched him closer and closer to climax, pushing her fingers hard into his pussy, burning for the fullness; pressing her heel hard against his cock, aching for the pressure. The smooth tips of her fingernails ghosted down his body, providing a gentle, tingling sensation that blurred together with all the rest, and was hardly missed when that hand left his body to close around the hilt of her sword, which Mòrag drew and extended into a whip behind Zeke's back.

“You know what I need from you,” she hissed, hot against Zeke's ear. The way his skin prickled at the proximity to her lips, the heat of her breath, the idea of her implication – she knew he was ready to provide it.

She held her whip-sword pointing down, and drew her fist out of the small of Zeke's back to prime it –

_wuh-KP!_

_“Ffuu-AAAHHH- UUUCK~!”_

The whip striking him longways down the back of his leg was what sent Zeke over the edge. His whole body tensed as his cries and the whip's cracking rang out at once; the lightning strike of pleasure and the white-hot pain of the whip shot through him together, knocking the breath out of him and pushing him up straight up, stretched as if the heavens intended to pull him away. Then he collapsed forward into Mòrag's arms, whimpering as his body released and regained that tension in sporadic bursts. He managed to take in a labored breath, finally, but he was still at the mercy of his pussy contracting around Mòrag's fingers, drenching them in his juice. Mòrag grinned behind his head, a sort of pride and satisfaction washing over her as his phallus twitched against her heel, sending overwhelming rhythmic waves of pleasure through his body.

Mòrag dropped her whip to caress the back of Zeke's neck, fumbling for a moment to unbuckle his gag. His head rested on Mòrag's shoulder and the belt fell away from his mouth, clattering on the ground before there was silence.

“Good boy.” Mòrag whispered in his ear as he finally started coming down from the orgasm. She deftly drew her fingers out of him and brought them up, Zeke's gaze following them up as they came to rest between their faces. Mòrag tilted her head forward to lick her fingers clean of Zeke's juices, prompting Zeke to do the same, so they both lapped at her wet fingers until Mòrag was satisfied with the job, pulling her fingers out of the mix and leaving only her and Zeke's mouths to meet each other. Their tongues met before their lips did, but either way, the kiss was brief as Mòrag reached up to release Zeke's wrists.

Mòrag carefully rolled up the belt after slipping it off Zeke's wrists, and Zeke gingerly lowered his arms, pulling them into his chest before dropping them to his side and rolling his shoulders one at a time. In the time it'd taken him to do that, Mòrag had taken a few steps away, over to where she'd piled up his clothes.

“What can I possibly do for you in return, Special Inquisitor?” Zeke had expected an answer in the form of a command, but knew he wasn't getting one as soon as Mòrag tossed him his pants in the middle of his sentence.

“I'm not sure we have time for any more favors,” she said, preening herself as she waited for Zeke to make himself presentable. He frowned at how obviously aroused she still was, but didn't press the issue.

“Ah, I gotcha. Don't wanna make Brighid too suspicious?” He stopped midway through getting his second leg into his pants to tease her. Instead of hurrying him along, Mòrag scooped her own hat off the ground and shot back:

“I'd be more worried about Pandoria, _'my Prince._ '” Zeke laughed in agreement. “Surely they've noticed we're gone by now,” Mòrag continued, trying to help Zeke with his amassment of belts once he got his pants on. Zeke slipped his boots back on, and Mòrag threw his jacket over his shoulders as he located his eyepatch and slid it back into place just before Mòrag handed him his gloves. Between both their efforts, Zeke was ready for the day ahead within a minute. As a finishing touch, she stood close and faced Zeke to brush his hair back into place. Once she finished, her hand lingered on his cheek, and their eyes met again. They stayed like that, peaceful, for another moment, until Mòrag flashed him a gentle smile, then fished her thin gloves out of her pockets and pulled them on just as she broke into a run down the corridor after her distant comrades, Zeke following not far behind.

 


End file.
